I hope that you forgive me one day.
Count to ten. do it again. Stay or go? Accept, or pretend? The truth is honey, I know it is the end. no more fighting the past, or fighting to last when the obvious is right in front of my eyes. i am merely dust molded up into cries of a sad poem, hoping that one day someone will make me into a real person. loveable. the kind that the world talks about. Instead I am seconds away from breaking apart, and blowing with the wind. Unless I count to ten, and do it again. Continually asking this time do I stay or go? Accept, or pretend?
I have crashed.
And I am in the process of reconfiguring
After a data dump that was never backed up or saved.
نحن أسياد أفكارنا
“We are masters of our thoughts”
It has been a long time…
Not since I’ve written, but since I have shared. I was honestly on a mission to become as stoic as I possibly can. To be overcome with logic and pretend that the other person that resides inside me simply does not exist. Though I hear her speak clearly; quite frequently Id decided that she wasnt “real”.
In the past 3 months, I have left the employment life and took on the life of business ownership. I made thousands my first 2 months in business. I gained high named clients and spend 4-6 hours of my week “working”. I got engaged to my lady for 5 years. She said yes…which surprised me. I am a monster who scares her but just not enough, maybe she loves me afterall.
I am also short circuiting. Reclusing. Undiagnosed with Bipolar disorder 2…explaining away my impulses, aggression, past, and aloofness. Why it never stops.
We are the masters of our thoughts, so what are mine telling me? What is the solution to my own self saying to save the world from myself and disappear?
I feel so alone.
The words are trickling down my brain and down my spine but seem to die before they reach my fingertips.
I remember something about unconditional; or was it unsubstantial? I suppose Alejandra Pizarnik can communicate it better…
Once again, someone falls in their first falling–fall of two bodies, of two eyes, of four green eyes or eight green eyes if we count those born in the mirror (at midnight, in the purest fear, in the loss), you haven’t been able to recognize the voice of your dull silence, to see the earthly messages scrawled in the middle of one mad state, when the body is a glass and from ourselves and from the other we drink some kind of impossible water.
Desire needlessly spills on me a cursed liqueur. For my thirsty thirst, what can the promise of eyes do? I speak of something not in this world. I speak of someone whose purpose is elsewhere.
And I was naked in memory of the white night. Drunk and I made love all night, just like a sick dog.
Sometimes we suffer too much reality in the space of a single night. We get undressed, we’re horrified. We’re aware the mirror sounds like a watch, the mirror from which your cry will pour out, your laceration.
Night opens itself only once. It’s enough. You see. You’ve seen. Fear of being two in the mirror, and suddenly we’re four. We cry, we moan, my fear, my joy more horrible than my fear, my visceral words, my words are keys that lock me into a mirror, with you, but ever alone. And I am well aware what night is made of. We’ve fallen so completely into jaws that didn’t expect this sacrifice, this condemnation of my eyes which have seen. I speak of a discovery: felt the I in sex, sex in the I. I speak of burying everyday fear to secure the fear of an instant. The purest loss. But who’ll say: you don’t cry anymore at night? Because madness is also a lie. Like night. Like death.
Saved by the words of a healthier poet.
Raw like a motorcycle accident wound the moment skin touches the concrete.
Raw like the grief that hits you after you hear that your most love one has passed away.
Self destruction is the antidote, and like chemotherapy the treatment may just kill me.
Tried to show my weakness like it was a new piece of fashionable wear…
But I guess it wasn’t in season.